Tight. They were always too tight.

Reggie Winters was, once more, facing the dilemma of how to put on those stupid, uncooperative black boots. It was an odd style they had, though Reggie could not think of it as a mere “style,” as it was all he knew.

“What are you doing, boy?”

“Father, I am booting up.”

“Good lad.”

Reggie frowned.

“Need anything from the Center, Father?”

“Yes. Say, five dozen quarts of egg substitute.”

“Any eggs?”

“Nope.”

The Center was basically a swarming mass of substitutes, MSG, and artificial ingredients, ironically because people had recently become aware of health hazards. Now they were smarter, but the buying had been going on so long it had become part of the Structure, like the black boots, which in turn became part of the Tradition, and you can’t challenge the Tradition.